Hard Knocks
by Toasterman
Summary: Ten years ago, the High Evolutionary conquered Earth, overthrowing mankind and replacing it with his own mutates. These creatures roam the blasted remains of America, killing at will. The last remnants of the human race hide in bunkers and silos, praying for dead heroes. Naught is left but heartache and sorrow. Only one man stands against it. (A Fourth of July one-shot.)


Ten years ago, the High Evolutionary conquered Earth, overthrowing mankind and replacing it with his own mutates—a race of half-men, born of forbidden genetics and fused with Zolatech from Dimension Z. These creatures roam the blasted remains of America, killing at will. The last remnants of the human race hide in bunkers and silos, out of the sight of the New Lord's genescanners. They pray for salvation from heroes that are long dead.

Naught is left but terror and heartache.

Only one man stands against it.

Hard Knocks

"Sir, word from Lieutenant Barnes," said the soldier at his door. "Southern ramparts. They're back."

The soldier was young, no more than fifteen. He felt bad for the kid, that his adolescence had to be spent in a perpetual emergency state, that he had to wear a flak jacket when he slept, that he lived in this bombed-out bunker in Nevada, and that he had learned to kill at too young an age, if there even was an age that was old enough.

"Sir?" the kid said.

"I heard you, son." He picked himself up from the bench and cinched his blast plate down—fifty pounds of steel mesh across his torso, with a white spattered star painted over the chest. When he moved, he could feel the wound in his shoulder stretch at its stitches. "Toss me my helmet."

The kid did. He looked at it for a moment, eyeholes hollow between his red gloves. The 'A' had faded through years of warfare.

"What mutate is leading the attack?" he said.

"The big one. The one with the rhino head."

"Does he still have it?" he said.

The kid looked at the ground. "Yes, sir. He has it."

"Very well." He slipped the helmet on and locked the chinstrap into place. "Lead the way, son."

((()))

Bucky was already at the ramparts when he arrived. The sky was blood-red. Burbles of rad-clouds streaked across the southern horizon, evidence of a decade-old detonation meant to slow the mutate horde. It hadn't helped.

Buck turned to greet him. "About time you got here. What happened, your colostomy bag spring a leak again?"

"Just show me the inbound," he said.

"Look for yourself." Buck handed him a pair of binoculars. "If you squint really hard, you might be able to see them."

He looked. No squinting was needed. The mutates poured forth in a horde—a mishmash of humanoid grotesques armed with battleaxes and laser rifles, phase cannons and catapults, seismic hammers and acid-throwers that connected through huge hoses to vats of degraded bio-stuff that sat lashed to the sides of plodding stegadons, their flanks daubed in primitive blood markings meant to tell tales of great plunder and pillaging, all of which was done in the name of their warchief, the hellish, tyrannical despot who rode atop the greatest rex of the pack, his body of chiseled grey muscle and his head of rhinoceros descent, the beast who, when seen through the binoculars, held a weapon in its hands that it should not have had and could not have earned, a weapon of unbreakable steel and honored colors which gleamed low beneath the reddened sky.

"That thing still has my shield," he muttered.

"Yes he does." Buck picked up his rifle. "How do you wanna do this?"

"Can you get a shot from here?" he said.

Buck shook his head. "Not if he still has that personal shield. It'd be like throwing pebbles. You'll have to get close."

"We'll wait for them to hit, then I'll handle it."

"Can you?" Buck touched him on the shoulder, above the wound. "Last time, he got you pretty good with that axe."

"Last time," he said, "I fought him stupid. He's stronger, but I'm smarter."

"Sure you are, pal." Buck turned away, motioning to the defenders, a mass of soldiers in battered body armor. "Man the walls, people. Captain America wants his shield back, so we're gonna help make that possible! Lay down fire as they come. Aim for big pockets of them. Don't stop shooting until they stop coming."

There was no battle cry. The men climbed to their posts and got ready. He understood that exhaustion, and he understood that it would be their undoing. They needed something to rally behind.

He flexed his shoulder, testing its limits, preparing. The horde moved closer.

((()))

Grunn Mallox had a rhinoceros's head and skin but the dimensions of a human being. A horrifically muscular human being, but a human being nonetheless. Amongst the mutates of his horde, he was known as Scrotal Primus or the Horned Conqueror. Amongst the mutates of the Dakotas, whose lands he had raided during the last season of flame, he was known as the Grey Butcher, the Murderous One, and the Testicular King.

Of all these nicknames, Grunn preferred the ones that mentioned his testicles. His testicles were large and Grunn was quite proud of them.

He was also proud of his battleaxe, the blade of which was made of lasers, and his new shield, which was made of vibranium. He rode atop his rex, marching it towards the walls, and hoped the star-spangled idiot would try to fight him again.

His horde smashed against the human walls, eating lead and artillery. Mines, buried around the ramparts, took chunks out of his line, blowing mutate parts into the sky with every crumping detonation. Grunn laughed at the sight.

"Onward!" he shouted, and his rex complied, stamping its way through the horde. Mutates were crushed underfoot, their bodies stomped into the churning mud. Bullets spanged against his rex's head armor and made little pocks as they vaporized in his personal body shield's matrix.

His rex bellied up to the wall and Grunn made his move, running down the creature's spine and leaping off its head. He landed on the ramparts, amidst a group of humans, and immediately got to killing. His battleaxe sliced heads and opened guts. Men screamed and died. They broke and ran, fleeing the ramparts.

All but one.

The idiot stood before Grunn, his blue armor dulled by the smoke and dirt. He held no weapon.

"You wish to face me again! To, what, get back this?" Grunn lifted the shield.

Captain America shrugged. "More just to kill you," he said.

Grunn laughed and charged forward, battleaxe swinging up from his side, aimed to cleave the hero apart from hip to neck. He did not expect it to work. Despite his idiocy, the Captain was a strong foe. He would dodge to the left, and they would engage, trading blows. But his shoulder would betray him, the wound of their last encounter taking its toll. He would slow, he would drop his guard on that side, and then Grunn would take him.

Still, it would be a glorious fight. It would earn him more epithets, more accolades. He would be great. So he swung the axe, aiming it for that low blow, expecting the feint to the left.

It never came. Instead, Rogers stepped inside the swing, blocked the haft with his palm, and planted his boot deep into Grunn's crotch.

Grunn Mallox, Scrotal Primus and Testicular King of the badlands, squealed in agony. Pain exploded in the mutate's small brain and he doubled over, the wind and fight knocked from his body. He dropped his axe and reached for his tremendous testicles, but Rogers would not let him. A second boot landed, this one pulping one of the swollen organs. Grunn screamed.

Humans and mutates alike paused at the sound. Rogers stood on Grunn's groin as he picked up the discarded battleaxe. He let it fall once, the blade cracking through horn and skull to imbed deep into the steel decking. The screaming stopped.

Rogers dropped the axe and pulled his shield off the corpse's arm. He lifted it high, so that the dead sun caught a gleam from the old colors on its fascia. The defenders of the ramparts returned, their weapons coughing flame and lead into the stunned horde. The mutates shrieked. Some ran, some stayed and fought.

It didn't matter. All died in the end.

((()))

Buck found him in the aftermath. "The outriders just called in. Most of the horde that ran are now KIA. Guess those machineguns you found did the trick."

He nodded. "Glad to hear it."

"I can't believe you just kicked him like that," Buck said. "When you said you'd fight smarter, I figured you meant pressure points or blind spots or something. Not that."

"Sorry to disappoint you," he said.

"Apology accepted," Buck said, punching him in the shoulder.

He winced. "Thanks, pal."

Buck walked away. "Hey, know what today is?" he said, over his shoulder.

"No. What?"

"The Fourth of July!" Buck grinned. "Happy birthday, old man."

His second in command disappeared into the base, leaving him alone on the ramparts above the desert carpet of dead and dying mutates and the lumpy forms of their wounded dinosaurs. The blood sun was low on the horizon.

Steve Rogers slipped his shield into place on his back. Its weight between his shoulder blades was reassurance, a totem of familiarity in the madness that surrounded him. Even when the very sunset had become unrecognizable, that shield felt right.

"Happy birthday," he muttered, to no one in particular.


End file.
